USTACE BRIGHT told the legend of Bellerophon with as much fervor and animation as if he had really been taking a gallop on the winged horse. At the conclusion, he was gratified to discern, by the glowing countenances of his auditors, how greatly they had been interested. All their eyes were dancing in their heads, except those of Primrose. In her eyes there were positively tears; for she was conscious of something in the legend which the rest of them were not yet old enough to feel. Child's story as it was, the student had contrived to breathe through it the ardor, the generous hope, and the imaginative enterprise of youth.
"I forgive you, now, Primrose," said he, "for all your ridicule of myself and my stories. One tear pays for a great deal of laughter."
"Well, Mr. Bright," answered Primrose, wiping her eyes, and giving him another of her mischievous smiles, "it certainly does elevate your ideas, to get your head above the clouds. I advise you never to tell another story, unless it be, as at present, from the top of a mountain."
"Or from the back of Pegasus," replied Eustace, laughing. "Don't you think that I succeeded pretty well in catching that wonderful pony?"
"It was so like one of your madcap pranks!" cried Primrose, clapping her hands. "I think I see you now on his back, two miles high, and with your head downward! It is well that you have not really an opportunity of trying your horsemanship on any wilder steed than our sober Davy, or Old Hundred."
"For my part, I wish I had Pegasus here, at this
moment," said the student. "I would mount him
forthwith, and gallop about the country, within a
circumference of a few miles, making literary calls on
my brother-authors. Dr. Dewey would be within my reach,
at the foot of Taconic. In Stockbridge, yonder, is Mr.
James, conspicuous to all the world on his
mountain-pile of history and romance. Longfellow, I
believe, is not yet at the Ox-bow, else the winged
horse would neigh at the sight of him. But, here in
Lenox, I should find our most truthful novelist, who
has made the scenery and life of Berkshire all her own.
On the hither side of Pittsfield sits Herman Melville,
shaping out the gigantic conception of his 'White
Whale,' while the gigantic shape of Graylock looms upon
him from his
"Have we not an author for our next neighbor?" asked Primrose. "That silent man, who lives in the old red house, near Tanglewood Avenue, and whom we sometimes meet, with two children at his side, in the woods or at the lake. I think I have heard of his having written a poem, or a romance, or an arithmetic, or a school-history, or some other kind of a book."
"Hush, Primrose, hush!" exclaimed Eustace, in a
thrilling whisper, and putting his finger on his lip.
Not a word about that man, even on a
"And would Tanglewood turn to smoke, as well as we?" asked Periwinkle, quite appalled at the threatened destruction. "And what would become of Ben and Bruin?"
"Tanglewood would remain," replied the student, "looking just as it does now, but occupied by an entirely different family. And Ben and Bruin would be still alive, and would make themselves very comfortable with the bones from the dinner-table, without ever thinking of the good times which they and we have had together!"
"What nonsense you are talking!" exclaimed Primrose.
With idle chat of this kind, the party had already begun to descend the hill, and were now within the shadow of the woods. Primrose gathered some mountain-laurel, the leaf of which, though of last year's growth, was still as verdant and elastic as if the frost and thaw had not alternately tried their force upon its texture. Of these twigs of laurel she twined a wreath, and took off the student's cap, in order to place it on his brow.
"Nobody else is likely to crown you for your stories," observed saucy Primrose, "so take this from me."
"Do not be too sure," answered Eustace, looking really like a youthful poet, with the laurel among his glossy curls, "that I shall not win other wreaths by these wonderful and admirable stories. I mean to spend all my leisure, during the rest of the vacation, and throughout the summer term at college, in writing them out for the press. Mr. J. T. Fields (with whom I became acquainted when he was in Berkshire, last summer, and who is a poet, as well as a publisher) will see their uncommon merit at a glance. He will get them illustrated, I hope, by Billings, and will bring them before the world under the very best of auspices, through the eminent house of Ticknor and Co. In about five months from this moment, I make no doubt of being reckoned among the lights of the age!"
"Poor boy!" said Primrose, half aside. "What a disappointment awaits him!"
Descending a little lower, Bruin began to bark, and was
answered by the graver